


Falling

by LoonyLupin



Series: Hands of a Healer, Hands of a Rogue: Min Hawke x Anders [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Min Hawke, glib rogue, never expected to fall for a mage... let alone one as complicated as Anders.  Still though, sometimes one's heart leads instead of one's head, resulting in a sensation not unlike falling.<br/>----<br/>(Compilation of important moments from Hawke and Anders' relationship, from Act II to the end.  Mix of fluffy humor, smut, and angst.  Mostly angst, let's be honest.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Times of Need

Hawke’s vision blurred.  She was exhausted, injured as she was after that last fight along the Wounded Coast.  They had made it back to town to rest up, and she had bidden farewell to Isabela, Merrill, and Varric, telling them to rest.   **  
**

She knew she could go back home, sleep for a few days, take a few of the healing restoratives she had bundled away for just such occasions.  But it would be faster to visit the best healer she knew.  It was what she told herself, anyway.

Her feet traced the familiar path to Darktown.

Unfortunately the way was a lot longer, Hawke realized, when she was nursing a cracked skull.  The uneven ground, already a little treacherous, bobbed and swayed as she walked.  She found herself hugging the wall for support.  She was quite relieved to see Anders’ clinic come into view.  There were fewer refugees waiting outside than there used to be, which meant she could simply walk in.  

Anders was alone, writing at his desk by candlelight.  He glanced up as she entered.

“Hawke!” he said warmly, a smile lopsidedly creasing his face.  “It’s good to —”  His eyes darkened.  “You’re hurt.  What happened?”  He got to his feet just as she swayed, reaching out to a nearby table to keep herself upright.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, you should sit down!” said Anders urgently, hurrying to her side.  He laid a steady hand on her shoulder and with the other grasped her arm, guiding her into the chair beside the table.  It felt good to sit, she had to admit, with the way her head swam.  His hands on her arm and shoulder felt good, too, and she shivered at his warm touch, regretting it when he took his hands away.  He knelt in front of her, looking her over with a critical eye.  

“You shouldn’t be walking around with a head injury like that.  What were the others thinking?”  He reached up, finding the area where dried blood crusted her dark hair.  The others hadn’t noticed it, her black hair masking the wound.

“I didn’t make it a big deal,” said Hawke.  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.  It’s just I’d rather come to you instead of sleeping it off the old-fashioned way.”  She bent forward, gingerly resting her throbbing head in her hands.  “But it was a lot further here than I remembered it being.”

Anders rocked back onto his heels and stood, fetching his staff before returning to her.  He grasped it firmly, reaching out with his other hand to trace her forehead and cheeks.  She looked up at him.  His face was oddly flushed.

“Are you all right?” Hawke asked thickly.

“I — yes.”  But a furtive look crossed his face, and he hesitated.  “Are you sure you trust me?  After…”

After the mage girl.  Of course.  He’d told her, hadn’t he, that he was worried about hurting even patients?  That Justice could take control, transform him into Vengeance?  She tried to find the words to tell him that she trusted him, that she knew he wanted to do the right thing, that he was a good man, that he was more than the spirit within him.  But her head ached, making the words go all fuzzy, and all she could manage was, “Yes, Anders.  I trust you.  Will you help me?”

“Of course,” he breathed.  “Yes, of course, Hawke.”  A soothing golden glow emanated from his staff, coursing its way down his arms to release a warm aura that suffused her, gently traveled its way from her chest and neck to envelop her face and head.  She closed her eyes, exhaling softly at the relief the glow brought.  She was used to this from the battlefield, but this was a little different than she remembered.  In the heat of battle Anders’ healing felt quick, clean, efficient.  But now it carried with it a slow tenderness, a sweetness, that she had not encountered before.  

Hawke opened her eyes.  “Thank you,” she said, looking into his face.  The golden glow slowly dissipated, leaving behind an overwhelming urge to rest.  She yawned.  “I’m feeling much better.  But I think I need to sleep.”

“That was a pretty nasty bump to the head you had there,” said Anders kindly.  “I had to use something a little stronger on you than usual.  Head injuries can cause permanent damage, you know.  You’ll need to rest up for a few hours before you’re back on your feet.”

“I don’t think I can make it back to Hightown,” Hawke murmured.  “I barely made it down here.”

Was Anders blushing?  He was definitely blushing.

“Oh, well, if you’d rather, I mean, you could rest here,” he stammered.  “Not that it’s as nice as your place in Hightown, but I daresay it’s as least not as rubbish as the Hanged Man.”

Hawke grinned lazily at him.  “Sounds perfect.  Lead the way.”

He did, and if she didn’t strictly need to hold onto his arm for support as he led her to the wholly respectable bed in the back of his clinic, well, he didn’t need to know that.  He even helped her  pull her boots off and curl up on top of the covers.  He sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded together in his lap.  

“Thank you again,” Hawke yawned.

“No, thank you,” he said, shifting a little on the bed so that he faced her.  “I wasn’t sure if it was safe to heal again.  I’m grateful to you for helping me realize that I can still control that.”

“It’s simple,” she said.  “I trust you, Anders.  I think I’ll always trust you, if I’m to be honest.”  Her eyes widened.  Oh, hell.   _She_  was the one blushing now.

Anders sat very still.  A look of hope was upon his face, somehow beautiful despite the caution Hawke could sense underlying it.  “You don’t know how much that means to me,” he said, his voice rough with sudden emotion.  She realized he had shifted closer to her, perhaps unconsciously.

Hawke bit her lip, then pushed herself up to a sitting position.  Anders opened his mouth, as if to insist she get her rest, but she waved him away with a hand.  “I mean it,” she said.  “And I mean this, too.”  She reached out and curled her fingers into the collar of the robes, and before he could react, before she could stop herself, she pulled him to her and kissed him.

His mouth was warm and wet, his lips firm against hers, his tongue suddenly insistent.  She gasped into the kiss, ignited in a way that had nothing to do with magic, and with her other hand tangled her fingers into the back of his hair.  His arms wrapped around her, stronger than she’d expected.  She groaned when he pulled back, both of them panting.

“You truly mean it?” he asked, fighting back a grin.  “I don’t know how long it’s been that I’ve dreamed of this, but — but I have to be sure.”  His face shifted into worry.  “You have to remember it’s not only me you’re dealing with.  That things can never be normal for us.”

“Anders,” Hawke said.  He looked at her, and she tried not to swoon, seeing the way his brown eyes gazed at her.  She told herself any swooning was merely a by-product of a recent head injury.  Yes, that was it.  She charged forward, emboldened.  “Will you listen to me?  I’ve thought of all that.  I’ve thought it through countless times, but every time, what it comes to is  _this_.”  She kissed him again.  “We can handle whatever may come.  And I’d like to do it together.”

He drew her closer, then pressed a kiss to her head.  “Well,” he said, chuckling a little.  “Since you really mean it.  But there’s something I must ask of you.”

“What?”  She felt abruptly anxious.  Had she missed something important?

“You really  _must_  get to sleep!” he said sternly.  “As your healer I am ordering you to rest, even though I want nothing more than to kiss you furiously right now.  And perhaps remove your clothes.  And perhaps do wild and delightfully unsavory things to you.  But that will all have to wait until you’ve had your rest.  Healer’s orders, Hawke.”

“If it’s an order,” said Hawke, giggling.  She did feel so tired, now that the adrenaline of the moment was beginning to recede.  “But surely you can tuck me in.”  She patted the blanket beside her.

When she awoke the next morning, she was tucked into the blankets and Anders was snoring beside her, holding her hand even as she slept.  His fair hair was tousled sideways and upright, and his face was free of worry lines now that he was sleeping.  She smiled at him.  

Yes, it was always nice to visit one’s favorite healer in times of need.


	2. Apostate in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time, and unforeseen consequences.

Hawke kissed Anders furiously, panting as he moved beneath her.  She groaned as he thrust deep within her, again, again, each movement adding to the frantic ache she had felt for him for so long.  She pushed herself upward, staring down at him.   **  
**

His head was thrown back, his tawny eyes half-lidded in an ecstatic haze, his mouth twisted open in a gorgeous grimace.  The way he looked right now seized her with a fierce protectiveness.  She would do anything for this man with his flushed cheeks and his tangled hair, for his parted lips, for his chest glistening with sweat.  

“Oh,  _Maker_ , Anders,” she hissed, cupping his cheek with one hand, leaning down and pressing a hard kiss against his mouth.  

“Hawke,” he gasped in a strangled voice.  “You feel  _incredible_ …”  His arms around her tightened, pulling her back down to him as his hips bucked.  She twisted down against him, drowning in sensation, everything hot and slick and wet and deep, and she shuddered, her body quaking in a desperate release.  His cries joined hers only seconds later, their voices ragged and agonized, and he gave one last, powerful thrust before letting his head collapse back against the pillow.  

Everything slowed down.  Their embrace turned soft and boneless; their kisses faltered into little movements shy and gentle.  Hawke slowly shifted down to Anders’ side, sighing as he pulled out of her, the connection between their bodies finally separating.  She draped a lazy arm over him and curled up into his side, her breaths coming more slowly.

“Not too bad,” she said sleepily, “for the first time.”  She grinned at him, and was gratified to see him smile back, his gaze tired but happy.

“I daresay we did rather well for ourselves,” he agreed.  A thought struck him.  “Er, you didn’t mean — your first time ever —”

She nudged him, hard.  “Of course not.  Don’t be silly,” Hawke said, laughing.  “I meant it was a lovely first time for us.”  She grinned again.  “Us.  It sounds nice, I think.”

“Seconded,” said Anders, relaxing against the tangle of covers and pillows.  He reached up, flopping one arm over his head.  “So…”  He turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow.  “What does this mean, then?  For us?”

She lifted her head up to look at him.  He seemed quite serious, even with his hair falling into his eyes the way it was.  She had pulled his hair free from its binding at some point and she liked the way it looked down, shaggy with strands going every which way.  “I’ve had feelings for you for some time,” she said, feeling almost shy.  “I’d very much like to see where that takes us.”  She stroked his chest lightly with one hand.  “As for you?”

“I… think I’ve been in love with you for a while,” Anders said cautiously.  He leaned up and kissed her.  “Is that all right?”

“More than all right,” Hawke said, delighted.  “I love you, too, Anders.  Let’s give it a shot.”

“It’s a deal,” said Anders, wrapping her in a hug.  They rolled over, their sweat-slicked bodies pressed close together, the feel of his skin against hers unbearably good.  

Something struck her.  She pulled herself back away from him and sat up, wide-eyed.  

“Though that means… we’ll have to tell everyone.  Make it official.”

Anders sat up beside her, looking horrified.  “Oh.  Oh no.”

“Oh yes.  Can you imagine?  They’re all going to have an opinion — actually, I’m afraid some of them might already know, come to think of it.”  She buried her face in her hands.  “Oh dear.”

“What?” said Anders indignantly.  “How could they already know?   _I_  only knew this morning!  Did you tell anyone?”

“Well… not precisely,” Hawke hedged.  She looked down at her hands.  “Some of the others may have already inferred things on their own.”

“How?  That’s — that’s not possible,” blustered Anders.  “I was  _very_  discreet about my feelings.”

“Anders,” Hawke said patiently.  How to tell him this…  “Look.  You do realize you’re, well, rather on the fair side, don’t you?”

“Are you trying to tell me you fell for my dashing good looks?” he asked, striking a noble profile.  Hawke rolled her eyes.

“Well, partially yes.  That and your smile.  And your eyes.  And the way you laugh, which isn’t often enough but when you do it’s worth — stop distracting me!”  He laughed, and she shoved him playfully.  “But I also mean that you’re _pasty_.”  She held up her arm against his chest, the contrast between her dark skin and his pale chest striking.  “Anders, I’m trying to tell you that you blush.”

“I do  _not_.”

“You’re doing it right now!” Hawke pointed out.  He was, too, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose pinking up in the most adorable fashion.  “And you do it approximately half the time you speak to me!”

“That’s — I don’t —”  The color drained from his face.  “Are you saying it’s been that obvious?”

Hawke grimaced.  “Isabela  _and_  Merrill have been teasing me about it for over a year.  And Aveline would except she knows she hasn’t got a leg to stand on.”

Anders looked at her miserably.  “So  _that’s_  what all the giggling has been about whenever we’ve gone on patrol with them lately.  Oh, this is embarrassing.”  He ran one hand over his hair, smoothing it out.  He sighed.  “Well, I’ve a confession.”

“Spit it out,” Hawke said.  Oh, this was going to be pleasant, she was certain of it.  “Just please tell me you didn’t tell Varr—”

He closed his eyes, wincing.  “I did!  I did!  I was at the Hanged Man one night and he kept on buying rounds, and you know I don’t do well with alcohol, and one thing led to another and I maybe asked him for advice on how to talk to you.”

“And just when were you going to tell me this?” Hawke said incredulously.  “Anders, you know what Varric is like!  I’m surprised he hasn’t written some great romance about the lovestruck apostate and his roguish sweetheart and all their adventures and he already has, hasn’t he.”

Anders nodded glumly.  “It’s due out next month.  I don’t know what he’s going to call it.  The working title was ‘Apostate in Love’ but he said that was too pedestrian.  Maker’s breath, I’m sorry, Hawke.  I swear I was going to tell you at some point.”

She looked at him, contrite and naked and sitting here in  _her_  bed.  She liked the way he looked against her covers; she liked the look of him all over.  Even little things, like the blonde hair curling on his chest and legs and between his thighs, the jagged scar on his left bicep, the slight rise of his collar bones, the jut of the cartilage from his throat, the whole shape of him.  She smiled.  

“I don’t really mind,” she said.  “I hope he makes me out to have enormous breasts and long flowing locks.  And that he writes me as tall.  I wouldn’t mind being taller.  What good is fiction if you don’t embellish a little?”

Anders chuckled, the sound sweet to her.  “I’m glad you aren’t angry.  I don’t think you could get Varric to change his mind on a story without threatening that awful crossbow of his.  Mind, I don’t think you need any embellishment.  You’re incredibly beautiful as you are, you know.”

“Flatterer,” she said, kissing him.  His mouth was warm and slick, his lips firm.  She was acutely aware of the heat of him.  She drew back and saw that delightful flush to his cheeks again.  “I’m up for a second round if you are,” she purred.  She glanced down.  “Well, I suppose that answers that question,” she said wryly, reaching to his arousal.  He moaned at the touch of her.

“You feel amazing,” he said, kissing her hard as he embraced her, his fingers tangled in her hair.  “I suppose if we’re going to endure the teasing from our comrades, we may as well give them something to talk about.”

“You read my mind,” Hawke said.  They would have discussed it further, but his fingers slipped between her legs and then she had other things to think of instead.  Really important things.  Things that required rather a lot of, well, concentration.  And coordination, too, for that matter…

As she wrapped her legs around his waist, she thought,  _I could get used to this._   The lovely part was she knew he could, too.


	3. The Long Grey Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Anders cannot help but remember that he is still a Warden.

Anders was mumbling in his sleep.  The sound shook Hawke awake, rousing her from the barely-remembered dream she had been having.  “Anders?” she asked sleepily, lifting herself up on one elbow to look at him.  There was still a little light in the room from the last embers of the fire.

Anders’ face was twisted in some kind of grimace.  Sweat beaded on his forehead.  Hawke worriedly said, “Anders?  Are you all right?” and touched his bare shoulder.  It was slick with sweat, too.  He did not respond, only continued muttering breathlessly into the darkness.

“Anders!” she said sharply, and shook him, hard.  He finally awoke with a strangled cry, jerking away from her and rolling to the far side of the bed where she could see him shuddering.  She crawled through the covers to his side and slipped her arm over him.  “Anders, come on, wake up.  It’s all right.  You’re here with me.”

He let out a long, shaky breath and rolled back towards her.  His skin felt clammy now.  He buried his face in the curve between her neck and shoulder and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.

“Just a nightmare, Hawke,” he said.  “Don’t worry.  I’m fine.”  But his voice was still far more jittery than it should be.

“What was it?” she asked.

“Have you heard from Bethany?” he asked.

She looked down his tousled hair in confusion, then realized what he meant.  “You mean… was that a Grey Warden nightmare?  She’s only written me the once, but she did mention not sleeping well.”

He nodded against her shoulder.  “It’s one of those lovely side effects of drinking darkspawn blood they forget to mention,” he said.  He sounded much more like himself now, but he still held her tightly.  “Every now and then you get one of these tremendously fun nightmares of the Archdemon and the Deep Roads to liven up your night.  Just in case you’ve forgotten that you took the oath to become a Warden.”

She kissed the top of his head.  “I didn’t realize they were so bad,” Hawke said.  “I was frightened for you.  Is… is that what’s happening to Bethany, too?”

He nodded again.  “It’s worst in the beginning, I think.  Unless there’s a Blight going on.  Then it’s like that all the time.  That's what the Warden-Commander told me, at any rate.”  

Hawke closed her eyes.  She saw again Bethany’s face, down there in the Deep Roads, the blight creeping into her once-bright brown eyes, the sickly pallor to her skin.  There had been no other way to save her.  Not unless she had insisted Bethany stay at home -- but Bethany had wanted to come on the journey, she had.  She could make her own choices.  But that did not keep the gnawing sense of guilt from coming back to Hawke as freshly as it had been the day she gave Bethany to the Wardens.

“Have I… have I doomed her to a terrible life?” Hawke asked softly.  “I was trying to save her, but would death --”  Her voice cracked, and she could not complete the sentence.

Anders sat up and brushed her tangled hair away with one hand.  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.  “None of us could have predicted that that would happen to her.  It was the Blight, not you, who made her become a Warden.”

“But should I have made her?  I could see it in her eyes, Anders, she was frightened.  She didn’t want to do it.  But she was weak and I told her to, and she did, and now she’s alone dreaming of darkspawn and Archdemons and _I should have done something better_ for her.  She’s my sister.”  Hawke wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world, Hawke.  Granted, I wouldn’t have done it if there had been any other way to avoid the templars, but it’s not all bad.  I had friends in the Wardens.  One does do good work with them.  And there will always be a need for them.”  He sighed.  “It doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult, but I expect that’s life for you.  It’s always hard.  It’s just the problems that change.”

“I suppose that’s the best we can hope for, then,” said Hawke quietly.  “Problems that you can live with, instead of problems that you can’t.”

She kissed him, and pulled the covers back over herself, trying not to let her mind think of nightmares and demons, of Anders crying out in his sleep, of Bethany alone except for monsters.  But she lay awake until the sunlight crept in through the window, awake and unsettled, awake and guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly - being a Warden abomination apostate mage, could Anders get any better? o_O


	4. Judgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gave Merrill the arulin'holm. Hawke saw herself as helping a friend... Anders saw a mistake.

Anders was angry at her.  It was obvious, in the way he moved forward to walk ahead of her, in the way his shoulders stiffened.  She hung back with Merrill as they walked back to Kirkwall from Sundermount.

Merrill scarcely noticed the way Anders had gone on ahead of them.  She was too busy admiring the arulin’holm, the strange, ancient knife that Hawke had given her.  Her pale face was flushed with excitement.  

“Hawke, I’m so grateful,” she said in a low voice.  “I knew you’d understand that I’m only trying to restore what belongs to my people — to bring back even a small piece of what was taken from us so long ago.  Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome,” Hawke said warmly, but her eyes followed the dust trail Anders’ boots left behind.

***

Merrill left them for the alienage as soon as they entered through the great gates of Kirkwall, leaving Hawke and Anders alone.  She was too excited to begin work on the mirror, Hawke knew.  Anders immediately began to stride towards Darktown, though earlier they had discussed going back to Hawke’s house afterward.  Irritated, she hurried after him and grabbed his arm, halting his steps.

“I need to get back to my clinic,” he said, scarcely looking at her.  “I’ve things to do.”

“Clearly we need to talk,” said Hawke.  She nodded towards an empty alley.  “Come on.  You’re obviously upset.”

“Of course I’m upset,” said Anders, following her into the alley with a scowl on his face.  “But we’ll agree to disagree and that’ll be the end of it.”  He leaned against the stone wall, the late afternoon sun casting a deep shadow over his face.  He crossed his arms, and inwardly Hawke groaned.  This was not going to be pleasant.

“No,” she said.  “I’d like to talk this through.  You’re upset I gave Merrill the aruli-whatsit.  You don’t think it’s a good idea to repair that mirror of hers.”

Anders bit his lip, shaking his head.  “You heard her yourself.  That mirror is what got her started in blood magic.  How could it possibly be a good idea?”

Hawke sighed.  She leaned against the wall beside him, their arms slightly brushing.  It was easier to put her thoughts into words when she did not have to look at the anger in his face.  She had seen him furious many times — both as himself, and with Justice, or Vengeance, shining through him — but never before had it been directed at her.  But this was important to her, and she would not back down.

“Maybe I don’t understand because I’m not a mage,” Hawke said carefully.  “But in all the time we’ve known Merrill, has her magic ever brought harm to us?  Or to an innocent person?  Maybe she’s got a point.  Maybe blood magic is magic like any other, and it can be used for good things.  Or, it can be abused by arseholes.  But that can happen with any type of magic.”

“It isn’t the same thing at all,” said Anders, just as carefully.  It was as if they were strangers.  His arms were still crossed, and she wished she had not brought him along at all to Sundermount.  “Blood magic requires a pact with a demon.  There’s no getting around that.  For all we know she could still be in contact with the demon she met through the mirror, and it could be what’s compelling her to do this.  It’s not safe, Hawke, for us or for her.  She’s naive about this, and always has been.”  His mouth twisted.  “I just can’t believe you listened to her over me.”

“So that’s what it is, then,” said Hawke.  “You’re — what?  Jealous?  That I thought she might know something about a Dalish artifact?  That I decided to trust her judgment because she’s never done wrong by us before?  Because I’m her friend?  What’s this really about, Anders?” Hawke asked defensively.

He turned to face her, then, and the coldness in his glare was hard to look at.  Hawke kept her gaze on him, her chest rising and falling more rapidly.  

“This isn’t the first time you’ve made a questionable decision about magic,” he said.  “You wouldn’t listen when I told you to stay away from me.”  His cheeks were going pink.  Usually she only saw that when he blushed at being flirted with.  To see it flaring across his face during an argument made her stomach twist.  “Choices like that could get you killed.”

“Well,  _that_  escalated quickly,” Hawke said, trying to joke.  It did not work.  She couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice.  “Look, Anders, all I can do is judge things by what I know.  I know you’re a good person.  I know Merrill’s a good person.  I trust you both because what you’ve done for us is more important than what you are.”

“And you shouldn’t,” he cut in.  “You can’t blind yourself to the truth.  You remember what happened —”

“Yes, I remember,” Hawke snapped.  “And I was able to talk you down, wasn’t I?  You didn’t hurt that girl.  You just need more practice to learn how to control him —”

“It’s been years!” said Anders, gesturing with his hands.  He was clearly agitated now, shifting his weight from side to side.  “If I can’t control him completely by now, I never will!  You’re playing a dangerous game, Hawke, trusting me.”

“This isn’t some kind of game, Anders!  So first you’re angry because I didn’t trust you about Merrill.  Now you’re angry because I’ve trusted you about  _everything_  else!”  Hawke’s voice had risen, but she could not make herself lower it, she could only manage to keep it below a shout.  “You can’t have it both ways!  You’re a blighted hypocrite if you think it’s all right for us to be in love despite Justice and darkspawn and templars and whatever else there is to worry about — and  _please_  tell me there isn’t anything  _else_  I’ve got to be apprised of — but the instant I try to extend someone the same trust I’ve shown you, suddenly you get to be upset?  That’s not fair!”

He stared at her as she slowly deflated from her outburst.  His eyes were brighter than they should have been.  Oh, Maker, she’d really put her foot in it this time.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said in a dull voice.  His arms hung, limply, by his sides.  “I’ve been selfish to stay with you when I know what I am.  What I could do.”  

“Don’t you dare,” Hawke said warningly.  “Don’t you dare try to tell me you’ve got to end things for my own good.  I am not a child, and I stand by my choices.  I know  _exactly_  what you are capable of.  And I know what a wicked blood mage can do for that matter.  But Merrill’s my friend, and I stand with her.  And for better or worse, whether wise or utterly, painfully foolish, I love you.  Deal with it.”

She moved forward and flung her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.  His heart was racing.  She had not meant the conversation to get so heated.  She realized she was trembling.

After a moment, he cautiously brought his arms up to embrace her.  She lifted her head, and saw him looking down at her, all traces of anger gone.  She kissed him.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”  She considered.  “I take what you say about magic very seriously.  Please don’t think that I don’t.  But in this case, I also trusted Merrill.  It wasn’t about not wanting to listen to you.”

He sighed.  “I’m sorry too.  It’s one of the few things I learned in the Circle I still hold onto — that blood magic leads only to a mage’s downfall.  Merrill’s made it this long.  Perhaps she’ll be the exception to the rule.”  His mouth quirked to one side in a rueful attempt at a smile.  “I’ve said my piece about it, and you did listen to it.  That’s fair.  You’re free to decide for yourself.”

They were quiet, then.  Hawke could hear the sounds of the city only a few yards away, footsteps hustling and bustling, shopkeepers barking their wares, voices murmuring, children shouting.  It seemed quite far removed from them and the way they stood, awkwardly hugging in the empty alley.  

“What about us?” Hawke asked quietly.  “Am I free to decide to still love you?  Or are you going to — to insist otherwise?”  She could not bring herself to say  _Or are you going to leave?_

Anders gazed down at her.  His expression was sad, but there was a small smile playing around his mouth.  His hand cupped her chin, gently lifting her face up so that he could kiss her again.  “I _am_ that selfish,” he said.  “I can’t bear to leave you, even though I should, for your sake.”  He laughed, the sound small. “Even when we’re fighting I can’t stand to be apart from you for long.”

“I know what you mean,” Hawke murmured, reaching up and placing her hands on either side of his face, her fingers gently tucking a few loose strands of blonde hair back behind his ears.  “Even when I want to kick you, I still want to kiss you, utterly infuriating man that you are.”

“A charming sentiment,” he said, and this time his smile was broader, realer.  “You do know the way to a man’s heart.”

“Thank you, I like to think so,” she said warmly.  She glanced around at the alleyway.  “Come on.  I know a lovely bedroom where we could further settle this argument.”

“I will defer to your judgment in this case, messere Hawke,” Anders said with a slight bow of his head.  “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this doesn't come back to bite Hawke in the ass after all this... no spoilers, ha!


	5. Ice and Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The loss of her mother leaves Hawke as brittle and fragile as ice. Anders does what he can.

Even with Anders’ arms around her, she felt utterly, utterly cold.  She stared up at the ceiling in the darkness.  Anders had fallen asleep a few hours ago, exhausted from the battle.  He had helped so much.  She knew she could not have stood against so many demons without his healing, knew she would not have been free to drive her blade home had Justice not stepped in with his terrible power.  

And yet with all his help her mother still lay dead and mutilated.  Aveline had taken her body for care to the Chantry so that Hawke did not need to do so.  But part of her wished, dully, that she would have gone to she could look upon her failure one last time.

Anders said it wasn’t her fault.  He had knelt behind her, taken her in his arms and gently pulled her away from her mother’s -- from that facsimile of her mother’s body.  Hawke had sat limply against him, her hands nerveless, her stomach churning.  She vaguely remembered Merrill’s hand, small and light, on her shoulder; Aveline kneeling and reverently covering Leandra’s once-beautiful face before bowing her head in a small prayer.  

Hawke did not remember getting home; she scarcely remembered talking to her uncle.  For all his jealousy he had loved his sister.  Just as Hawke had loved Carver, who was long dead on a bitter path from Lothering.  Just as she loved Bethany, who now was taken from her by the Wardens.  The world seemed small and shrunken and grey.  She remembered when Father and Carver had died, but so much had been happening in the wide world -- the encroaching Blight, the sack of Lothering, running for their lives -- that there had not been time to grieve, and then in Kirkwall there had not been time, either.

Now it felt as if there was nothing but time.  All the time she could possibly need to second guess herself.

Had she said goodbye to Leandra this morning?  Had she even bothered?  Or had she only assumed that as always, her mother would be there to greet her after a long day, to smile at her, to hug her goodnight?  She had taken her for granted so.  

Hawke let out a long, shuddering breath.  She almost wished she could cry, but now she felt only hollow.  Was there a person here now?  Was she really here in this bed in the dark, in this house she had proudly bought for her family?  Or was she a wraith, nothing more than ice and shadow, some shell of a woman named Min Hawke that used to live here?

In the frigid darkness anything seemed possible.

Part of her felt fidgety, twitchy, like she wanted to grab up her daggers and go back to that mage’s body.  Maybe she should show him desecration.  Maybe carving obscenities into his flesh would make her feel better.  Then again she had thought striking the final blow would let her feel something, too; but all she had felt was sinew and organ meat twisting round the blade of her knife, the hot blood pouring over the back of her hand and between the joints of her gauntlet, a sudden burn of iron biting the inside of her nose.  There had been no sense of release, no joy, not even hatred.  Only this bitter numbness.

The rest of her felt paralyzed into inaction.  This part ruled her, now, her body weighted in cold stone, her chest struggling to draw breath against the mass crushing her.  Was this better?  Was it worse than blinding hatred or surging grief or nauseating guilt?  She did not know.

Anders stirred beside her.  Sluggishly she shifted to the side to let his arm withdraw from beneath her.  It was probably sore, she thought dimly.  She had been lying on it all night.  He was so warm beside her, and yet it did not seem to help keep her from shivering.

“Hawke,” he whispered.  “You’re awake.”

“Yes.”

“Have you slept at all?”

“No.”

She could feel him propping himself up on one arm behind her.  She closed her eyes so she could not see the concern on his face.  She did not want it.  She did not want anything but her mother back.

“Min,” he said.  He so rarely used her first name -- hardly anyone but her family did these days -- that it sounded strange in his mouth.  “I know I can’t make this better for you,” he said haltingly.

“No one could,” Hawke said flatly.  His fingers traced gently over her shoulder, and she winced, pulling away.

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” he said, sighing.  “I know I’ve said it a dozen times tonight, but I mean it.  And I want to help you however you can.”

“You already said no one could bring her back,” Hawke said, more cruelly than she meant.

“That’s true.  But please, love --”  The name was experimental.  He had never called her anything but her name before.   _Love._  It stuck in her brain, bizarrely.  She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not; she would decide later.  “I can at least help you sleep tonight.  I think some rest would help you.”

She opened her eyes.  The room was still dark, but she could just barely make out his face when she turned back to him.  

“All right,” she said.  “I guess it’s better than lying here, at any rate.”  She considered.  “Can you… can you warm me up?  I’m cold, Anders.  I don’t think it’s because I haven’t got enough blankets.”

“Yes,” he said, and she felt warm hands, one on her chest, one slipping to cup behind her neck.  A soft blue light flared suddenly from his hands, then winked out again.  She felt warmth coursing through her, spreading out to the edges of her awareness. 

Sleep took her before she could thank him.  Her dreams that night were faint and grey -- no mother staggering to greet her, no sounds of blades twisting in a murderer’s back -- and she slept long.

As Anders had warned, it did not make things better.  Nothing could do that.  But at least she realized she did not have to face the long cold night alone.


	6. The Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke battles the Arishok in single combat, and Anders can't bear to watch.

Anders shuddered, unsure if he could keep watching the duel between Hawke and the Arishok without Justice -- or Vengeance -- rearing his head.  His hands clenched at his sides, coils of blue energy licking the edges of his fingertips.  His rational mind told him the terms of the duel, again and again.  One on one.  A fight to the death.  Any change would bring bloodshed and Hawke’s certain death.  

But the Arishok towered over her, swinging his wicked twinned blade and his axe, and though she was so quick, so light, on her feet -- how Anders loved the way she almost danced when she fought -- she could not keep it up forever, she was panting, she was flagging --

She sidestepped the Qunari neatly, and plunged herself into darkness, striking with her twin blades at the weak spot in the Arishok’s armor.  The Arishok groaned, but he whirled to face her and jabbed his blade forward in a fierce, stabbing parry.  The blade tore through Hawke’s hauberk, ripped into her and exited out the other side.  Hawke cried out, hands scrabbling madly at the blade buried deep in her belly, and the Arishok lifted her entirely off the ground, his muscles straining as she slid lower onto his sword.

Anders did not remember leaping forward, magic flaring from his hands, Justice beginning to boil forth from his mouth and eyes.  All he knew was that suddenly Aveline and Fenris were struggling to hold him back, their arms forming a barrier as he fought them.  

“He’s killing her!” Anders shouted.

“We agreed to the terms of the duel!” snarled Fenris.  But Anders realized the elf and Aveline were both pale, as horrified as he was.  He could feel Aveline shaking, could see Fenris’ rapid pulse in his neck.  Anders sank to his knees.  If he were to charge forward, to heal Hawke or to attack the Arishok, the duel was off.  He dared to lift his gaze back to the dueling ground, frightened at what he might see.

Hawke was crawling away from the Arishok, the deep wound spilling blood down the sides of her armor and trousers.  Her dog Marhund ripped at the Arishok’s shins, distracting him long enough for Hawke to get away.  She fumbled at her belt and quaffed a potion, then scrambled to her feet, panting, swaying slightly.  The bleeding had stopped.

Anders felt an unbearable wave of relief.  That was too close, far too close.  And he knew the potions would not keep her standing for long.  But it was enough for now.  He could see the Arishok beginning to tire, the blood loss from Hawke’s blades and the Mabari’s fangs beginning to take effect.  If she could only finish him off --

She slipped behind him, fast as lightning, and brought both blades up into the space where his armor left his underarms and part of his chest exposed.  She drove them home, deep, deep, down through the chest wall, tearing a jagged hole that Anders could see from the stairs.  His hands clenched.  Would it be enough?  In a human that would leave the lungs flailing, unable to draw breath forth with the chest wall breached.  He begged the Maker for it to be the same in Qunari.

The Arishok grunted, tried to hit her with the great axe.  She rolled away from him, her movements clumsy but enough to get her to safety.  The Arishok staggered, one hand clawing at his chest, and drew a rattling breath.  He fell.

Hawke cautiously approached him, both daggers shaking in her hands.  The Arishok spoke with gurgling words, blood beginning to pour from his mouth.  Hawke narrowed her eyes and was about to speak when Anders saw the Arishok’s face slacken, the Qunari’s mouth hanging open with unnatural laxity.  She had done it.  She dropped her weapons, her legs buckling.

Anders was on his feet in an instant, rushing to her side even as she collapsed to her knees.  He knelt beside her, one arm around her shoulders, his other hand reaching into the Fade, pulling out spells of healing and strength.  Her head lolled onto his shoulder and he held back tears.

Maker, but she looked half-dead.  Her face was pale beneath the blood smeared on it, both the Arishok’s and her own; bruises swelled up around her eye and nose, and a split lip slowly trickled blood.  Her hair was all matted on one side where the blood had stickied it.  The look on her face was dazed; she scarcely realized he was there.  Anders quickly drew his hand down to the terrible wound at her side, and hissed out a low breath when he felt how deep it was, despite the healing potion she had taken to stop the bleeding.  Blue light poured into her from his hands.  He would fix this, he would, he could not let her down now...

He held his breath, letting the wards of healing course through her.  He checked her side again.  The wound was knitting together, the skin reforming beneath his fingertips, and he knew that within her abdomen it was the same, flesh and veins and organs responding to his will.  

He closed his eyes, resting his head against hers.  “It’s all right, Hawke, I’m here,” he whispered.

She let out a long sigh, her breath catching.  She reached out to him, one hand touching his face, a light caress against the line of his jaw before her hand fell back into her lap.  “So tell me,” she said weakly, “what’s a nice mage like you doing in a place like this?”

He laughed to keep from crying and took her in a fierce embrace, holding her against him.  She stayed like that for a moment, sheltered in his arms, before lifting her head.  To his relief the black eye and the rest of the swelling was beginning to fade.  Already it looked as if she was three or four days out from the fight.  She smiled at him, the split in her lip barely visible, her eyes beginning to brighten once more as the magic continued to work.

“I’m not a nice mage,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and failing.  He laughed again.

“The nicest,” she said, and the look of gratitude she gave him was more than he could bear.

“Hawke.  Are you all right?” asked Aveline, shaking her head.  “The Qunari are gone.  You’ve done it.”

“I’ll be all right,” Hawke said.  She reached up to Aveline, letting the other woman pull her to her feet.  Hawke bent down and slowly gathered up her weapons, groaning.  “Remind me not to duel an Arishok again any time soon.”

Anders got to his feet, brushing himself off.  He gave her an exasperated look.  “You had better not,” he said.  

She winked at him.  “Only joking, dear.”  She turned to make her way to the entrance, limping to where the Knight-Commander and the rest of the city awaited.  And Anders thanked Andraste and the Maker that she had made it.


	7. Intercedence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke begins to realize something is wrong with Anders.

Hawke sat on the edge of the bed, long after Anders had fallen asleep.  Usually it was the other way around, at least lately.  Once they had fallen asleep together eagerly, ready for lovemaking, holding hands, laughing together, drifting off hand in hand.  She missed those days.  There had been trouble, there had been problems, but they had faced them together, the two of them against the world.

Lately, though, Anders had taken to pacing the small room late at night, or leaving it altogether to do Maker knew what.  On this night he had fallen deeply asleep as soon as he had come home, not speaking with her at all.  She had gone to ask him how his day was and found him fast asleep, his new black coat rumpled in a pile on the floor.  She had glared at it.  

She had begun to hate that coat; it seemed sinister, somehow, a harbinger of some subtle, awful change in her lover.  He looked handsome in it, she could not deny that, but its stark black material made him look wan and pale with his fair coloring.  It seemed to bring out dark circles beneath his eyes and a gauntness to his cheeks.  Maybe she was imagining it.  She told herself she was; she told him how fetching he looked in it.  But she missed now when he used to wear bright colors of green and gold. 

She had glared at the pile of his rumpled clothing, and avoided slipping into the covers beside him.  She stayed up late instead, drinking from a bottle of wine Fenris had brought until it was empty.  It burned in her mouth, and her gut roiled.

Something was terribly wrong.

Hawke knew it, had known it for some time, down in the pit of her belly where her body understood things long before her mind had put them together.  Her hands twisted in her lap, fingers intertwining.

_I **am** the cause of mages.  There is nothing else inside me._  His words echoed in her head, stark, defeatist.  In the darkness they clamored.  She wished she could unhear them.  

She remembered what he had told her once, when the energy between them crackled and she had wanted nothing more than to be with him.   _But I’m still a man._  She had believed him, and what was more, he had believed himself.  He had believed there was still a part of him that was human and deserved to be loved.  She did not know what had changed, but she knew that somehow he had gone hollow inside.  That human part of him, if it still lived, was buried in the down deep; buried below hate and anger, spirit and darkness.

She knew now she loved a sick man, and she was frightened.

That night Hawke bowed her head, trembling hands clasping beneath her chin.  She had not prayed to Andraste and the Maker since her mother died.  She tried to, tried to think of the right words to ask for help, for intercedence, for mercy.  But the words died in her mind before she could think them.

Instead she pulled her legs up onto the bed, wrapping her arms around them, resting her head on her knees.  With her face buried in her nightgown that way, Anders could not hear her as she cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had been spoiled for Anders' actions in Act III long before I ever played Dragon Age, so I was both curious and nervous about playing his romance on my first playthrough. Knowing the main details but not the specifics, it lent a certain foreboding to all of my Hawke's interactions with him in Act III, though I like to think it's just that she knew him very, very well, and knew enough to be justifiably quite worried.
> 
> This is a short chapter but I enjoyed the feeling of dread it conveyed.


	8. Worth Your While

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders tries to bridge the growing gap between he and Hawke... or perhaps pretend it isn't there.

Hawke scowled, opening up one of the letters on her desk from the new pile Bodahn had brought her.  It seemed she could scarcely go anywhere in this city without someone needing this or that.  In the past she had never minded, but lately, with blood mages roaming the streets, with Meredith calling to cull the Circle, and Anders with that cold, distant look in his eyes… she felt she had rather enough to be going on with.

The letter was dated with today’s date.  She read through it, her interest piquing.  She did not recognize the flowing script.  It looked almost Orlesian, it was so ornate.

 

_To the Champion of Kirkwall: there is an urgent matter I must discuss with you tonight at the Hanged Man.  It is a matter of grave importance and is of a delicate nature; I trust in your discretion.  Meet me tonight and I shall make it worth your while._

_Yours, a loyal friend_

 

Hawke shrugged.  Why on earth not?  After all, if it panned out to be nothing, she could find Varric and drink away her troubles.  If it was a trap, she could blow off some steam by knocking a few heads together.  It was truly a win-win, she decided.

****

Hawke sat pensively at a table far in the back room of the Hanged Man, nursing her second pint.  The mysterious letter writer had not yet shown, though she was a little early -- she had wanted to check the place out and make sure there was no ambush in wait.  After all, it was only last week Fenris had sprayed the blood of Danarius all over these walls.  Impressed, she noted they had done a decent job cleaning up the place.

There seemed to be no sign of an ambush.  She sighed, wondering if she had mistaken the time, or if it was all some kind of trick.  She was about to get up when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and froze.

“My dear Champion,” said Anders, and she jerked backwards staring up at him.  He was smiling down at her, looking dapper in his sleek black robes.  Tonight his face seemed to have more color in it for once, even against the dark clothing.  With some surprise she noted he had even attempted to brush his hair, a rare occurrence.

“Anders, what are you doing here?” she asked.  “I’m supposed to --”

“Meet someone?” he said, slipping onto the bench beside her and resting his hands on the table.

“Yes, I --  Oh.  Oh!  What’s this about, then?” Hawke asked, genuinely delighted.  “Was that your handwriting on that note?”

Anders laughed.  “Guilty as charged.  I used to take calligraphy classes back at the Circle when I was a boy.  I thought it might help surprise you.”

“I’m impressed that actually worked,” Hawke said.  “Though I should have known.  You always make it worth my while.”  She leaned into him, grinning until he kissed her.

“Listen,” said Anders, pulling away.  He laced his hands together, looking down at them.  “I wanted to apologize.”

Hawke gazed at him with concern, feeling both anxious and relieved.  She remembered the night a few weeks ago, when she had curled up with a bottle of wine and cried, certain that something terrible was going to happen.  As the days had gone on, she had started to wonder if her intuition had been wrong.  Anders had seemed distant, but nothing awful had come to pass.  Now it seemed as though her initial instinct was right.  She bit her lip.

“Go on.”

“I’ve been --”  He paused, as if searching for the words.  “I’ve not been myself for a while now, Hawke.”  He would not meet her eyes.  “I haven’t been fair to you.”

“No,” she said.  “You haven’t.”  She swallowed.  “You’ve been shutting me out, Anders.  You used to share your thoughts and your feelings with me, mad as they were."  She tried to smile at her joke but her mouth did not seem to be working right.  "These past few weeks you’ve been like a stranger to me.  I thought I was imagining it, but after the Chantry --”

He winced.  “I’m sorry.  I should have found another way than to involve you.”

“Are you going to tell me what it was about?”

He shook his head.  “I can’t.  Not yet.  Please, don’t ask me again,” he said.  He still stared at his hands, and she realized they were clenched together, his fingernails digging into the backs of his hands, leaving little red marks in his skin among the light brown freckles there.  “But the reason I can’t tell you is not because I don’t trust you.  You must believe me.”

“Anders… I don’t know if I can do this,” Hawke said.  “You've always trusted me before, and I've always supported you.  I love you.  I want things to be better for all mages, but lying to me -- it's not the way it should be."  She touched his arm, and he stiffened.

"You're right," he said.  "As I told you before, I haven't been fair to you."  He rubbed his face with one hand, finally looking her way.  

"So stop it.  Be fair.  Involve me again.  What did you really want to say to me tonight?" she asked firmly.

"I wanted to say that I was wrong," Anders said.  "I did blackmail you into helping me, and I'm ashamed of myself for that.  It was cruel of me, and you didn’t deserve it.”

"Well, I'm glad you've come to that conclusion," said Hawke, taking another drink.  She felt gratified but also angry all over again.  "You were being a real arse.  It bloody well hurt to think you'd need me to pass some kind of test to prove my feelings for you.  I thought I'd proven that a thousand times over by now.  Knowing you could think so little of me after all this time -- well."  She glared into her mug, which had inconceivably gone empty.  Her eyes pricked and she wiped at them irritably.

"Hawke," he said, in the soft voice he used with her alone.  She turned back to him, and he took her face in both hands, kissing her deeply.  

She closed her eyes and parted her lips, the feel of his mouth against hers hot, wet, perfect.  She had missed this so badly, the raw, physical connection between them.  He tangled her hair in his fingers, pulling her closer as his tongue slipped into her mouth.  She sighed when he suddenly pulled away.

“Not here,” he said.  He tossed a glance over his shoulder.  “I’ve taken the liberty of renting a room here tonight… I thought it might be nice to have a change of scenery.  For both of us.”

She looked hard at him.  “You do know that whatever’s gone wrong between us, it won’t be solved with a night of passion and ignoring our problems.”

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.  “I know, my love.  But that doesn’t mean it would be wrong to pretend, for just a little while.”  He reached out, tracing a line along the collar of her shirt, his fingertip skirting the edge of her cleavage.  She shivered at his touch.

“I have missed it,” she said.  “I’ve missed _you_.”  She gave him a rueful smile.  “I suppose a holiday might make things seem a little brighter in the morning.  Even if they haven’t changed a bit.”

“I love you,” Anders said.  “That’s one thing that will never change.”

“And I do love you, Anders,” Hawke said.  She gripped his hand in hers.  “Come on then.  Let’s give it a go.”


	9. The Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke knows a change of scenery won't fix things in the long run... but sometimes even temporary distraction can be enough.

Hawke followed Anders into the small room at the back of the Hanged Man, hoping fervently they would not run into Varric in the hallway.  Well, if they did, she could always hastily concoct a tale about chasing a bandit into the back, she supposed.  Though she expected Varric would take one look at the flush on Anders’ cheeks and the unbuttoned snaps on Hawke’s blouse and immediately point out the obvious.

The room was nicer than she had expected it to be, furnished with humble but clean blankets, a cozy settee, and decently crafted bedside tables.  She sat down experimentally on the bed and was pleased to realize it had a good amount of bounce to it.

“It’s none too shabby,” she announced.  Anders sat down beside her, testing the bed with his hands.

“It doesn’t even appear to be bloodstained,” he remarked.  “Apparently the extra sovereign I gave the barman was worth it.”

He smiled lopsidedly at her, and for a moment she was seized with a fierce longing.  He always looked younger when he gave that sideways smile, and she wondered, what would it have been like to know him before Kirkwall?  Before Justice?  Before the Wardens?  Who was that man she had never met, the Anders before the world began to tear him down?

She shook her head.  Who was she, back then?  A lowly recruit in the King’s army, little more than darkspawn fodder.  Perhaps meeting back then would have futile after all.

“You look… pensive,” he said.  

“Just thinking,” Hawke said.  “I thought you liked that bit about me.”  She nudged him.

“Of course I do.  It’s just that you did look pensive, and I thought we agreed we were going to try to keep things as un-pensive as possible.”

“I think you agreed to that, not me,” said Hawke.  “I shall look as pensive as I want.”

“You always were contrary,” he said.  

She scoffed.  “As if you weren’t the most contrary mage in existence.  No, don’t think you can pin that on me.”  She raised her eyebrow at him.

“Perhaps I can settle for pinning you in general,” Anders said slyly.  

Hawke tried not to giggle at his attempt to be suave.  “I’d like to see you try,” she said coyly.  “Maker knows I could take you in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Not if you actually fought fair for once,” he retorted.  He edged toward her, but before he could reach out to touch her she rolled out of the way to the head of the bed, grinning at him.

“Now, now, what fun would that be?” she asked.  She crouched there, trying to look innocent.  “Come on.  If you want me, you had better come and get me.”

He crawled toward her, closing the distance in a second, their faces almost touching.  “Got you,” he said, just before he kissed her.

Sometimes Anders was a slow and tender lover, all murmurs and soft groans, deep languid strokes, hands caressing her back, her breasts, her curves.  But other times he was breathless, lips pressed hard to hers, his tongue desperate, his hands nearly tearing her clothes.  This was one of those times.

Hawke groaned into his mouth.  His kisses were hard and insistent, with his hands roaming over her, one hand slipping into her blouse.  She panted at his touch, her own hands working frantically at the snaps on his coat.  

“You’re wearing entirely too much,” she said reproachfully.  

“The same could be said of you,” he said.  They took a moment to remedy that, each of them quickly pulling off their outer layers and tossing them to the ground.  Anders kicked his boots off, then pulled off his socks, flinging them halfway across the room.  Hawke untied her blouse, leaving its strings a tangled mess when she wadded up the cloth and chucked it onto the bedside table.  She slipped out of her trousers, grinning as Anders pulled his own pants off, leaving his arousal obvious.

“I see you’ve missed me, Anders,” she said.

“You’ve no idea,” he said, breathing hard.  They sat there for a moment, taking in the other one’s appearance.  Hawke watched his eyes travel over her curves.  She smiled appreciatively at the bare crest of his shoulders, the lean lines of his arms and legs.  She moved into his lap, embracing him, enjoying the way he stifled a groan at her proximity.  

There was little speaking after that.  Words were too prone to misunderstandings, to secrets and lies.  There could be no lie in the way his mouth trailed kisses between her breasts, no secrets in the way he slipped his tongue into her, his fingers working her nub as she clenched around him.  Anders could not look grave and worried with his head flung back against a pillow, his hair tangling beneath his head as she took him into his mouth, his hips bucking to meet her.  When she climbed astride him and he thrust within her, there were only her soft cries, his sharp moans.  They moved together, arms around each other, his skin against hers, their faces working into mirrored grimaces of pleasure.  Surely the world outside was nothing to them; surely everything was here, in Anders’ shuddering breaths, in Hawke’s whimpers, in the way he thrust into her, in the way she ground against him.  Surely this was all they required, her legs quaking, his hips rolling, the way she collapsed into his arms and, exhausted, he kissed her cheek.

The night passed in a delicious haze.  At times they dozed, deeply, without fear or dream; at times they turned back toward each other, an embrace becoming a kiss, one kiss becoming twenty, the fires reigniting between them as they surged to meet each other, again, again.  It had not been this way in months; whatever had come between them had been slowly stealing them from each other for some time.

Hawke knew it, deep inside of herself.  She knew this was only a temporary distraction, a vacation from the world beyond.  But she needed it.  They needed it.  So she ignored the voice inside her warning her of what was to come.  

There was only here and now, she and he.  She could accept that.

Couldn’t she?


	10. Atonement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chantry has fallen, and Hawke makes her decision.

Time.  It was a strange thing.  Hawke had always thought it was inexorable, flowing past her like a river that could not be dammed.  But now she saw only flashes of it, brief seconds her mind could scarcely grasp.  

There had been strong words in the square, Meredith and Orsino nearly at open war, but Hawke had thought she could calm them down again.  She had thought a peace could form again.  She had been wrong.  That was when time betrayed her, crystallizing a mere fraction of what she saw into sharp, bitter memory.

There was Anders stepping forward, Justice flaring openly in his skin and voice, his staff striking the ground once, twice.

The utter lack of surprise on his face when the noise, the awful noise, hit them.

That baleful red light pouring into the sky from the shell of the Chantry.

The silence louder than the explosion.

She could not think. She could barely remember her father, her sister, her... Lover.  She threw her lot in with the mages, not knowing what else to do, trying only to hold back the gorge in her throat.  The smell of fire was thick on the ash-choked air.

Meredith and Orsino cried their challenges, but Hawke could barely hear them, reeling as she was.  There was a ring of steel on steel, a flurry of blades, hot blood splattering her face.  When it was over templars lay at her feet for doing their duty.  And Anders sat bowed on a crate in the square, his face empty, his hands - healer's hands - held limp and still before him.

“Please,” she said to the others.  “I must decide alone.”  She could barely speak.  They left her for the far edge of the courtyard, and she walked towards him.  Each step felt an eternity, another way time toyed with her.

At last she stood behind him.  She knew what this looked like, her stark figure standing above his.  An execution.

He spoke first.  “There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already said to myself.”

 _Try me_ , she thought.  Instead she said, “I might have understood, if you’d only told me.”  The words hung between them, an accusation, memories of her desperate queries to him.  She had asked so many times, and always, always, he had denied her.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said dully, refusing to look at her.  “But what if you stopped me?  Or worse, what if you wanted to help?  I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Why?” she snapped.  “Because I’d be an outlaw?  Because they’d come after me?  Who’s to say they won’t anyhow?  You have _not_ protected me from this, no matter what you tell yourself.”

He stared straight ahead.  She wondered what he could be thinking.

“If I pay for that with my life, then I pay.  Perhaps then Justice would at least be free.”

 _Justice, Justice_.  She hated the word.  Hated the spirit.  Hated everything.  There was no justice in her life or anyone else’s, a fact she knew now with a terrible certainty.

“You have to pay for what you’ve done,” she said, her words falling like doom around her.

“I know.”

She reached to her belt, her fingers curling around her knife.  She gripped his shoulder for leverage, letting her fingers twine amongst the silken feathers of his coat.  She had cried on this shoulder, kissed it when it was bare and sweat-sheened, clasped it when he had been in need of comfort, rested her head against it as she fell asleep.  Beneath her hand she felt him tensing, bracing for the knifepoint.  He would not fight her.  It would be simple.  It would be clean.  Cleaner than the smell of sela petrae and drakestone.

Her fingers tightened on the weapon's hilt before she flung it aside.  She gripped his shoulder hard, jerked him around to face her.  He stared past her at where the fallen knife had landed.

"Hawke!  What are you doing?" he asked in disbelief.

"It's not what I'm doing," she said, fighting back the rage building within her.  "It's about what you're going to do."

"What --"

"You are going to get up.  You are going to put this to rights," she snarled, shaking him.  "I am taking you with me and we are going to see if there are survivors, and if there are, you will heal them.  You will heal any wounded innocents we find.  You will heal any mages that we find.”  She jerked her head towards where the others stood at the other end of the courtyard.  “You will keep _my people_ alive.  You will atone, and you will fight.  And you will not put the stain of your blood on my hands, Anders, you will _not_ do that to me."

She was weeping now, tears streaming down her face, but she blazed on.  "Do you hear me?  I won't let you take the easy way out, not by my hand!  It's obvious you expected to die today.  It's been obvious for a long time.  I thought -  I thought maybe I was wrong - that you would stay for me --"  She dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, panting.  

She swallowed, standing back from him, the anger leaving her as suddenly as it had arrived.  It was replaced by cold resolve.  The tears stopped.  "But you have work to do here, Anders, and I will not let the Fade take you until it's done."

He was silent.  She did not know if her words had gotten through to him.  Maybe the knife was the better choice after all.  Maybe Tranquility was truly the final solution.  Her gut twisted at the thought of a golden lyrium brand beneath his blond hair.  No. She could not do that, not any more than she could stab him in the back and watch his blood stain the stone beneath her feet.

He slowly stood, hands still limp at his sides.  His face was ashen, his eyes deadened.  She stared coolly into them, refusing to flinch.  The seconds stretched between them, impossibly long.

"What say you?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, his voice a whisper.  He nodded, swallowing, the muscles in his throat working convulsively.  “If you will have me, Hawke… I will follow you.  Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Wish there had been the option to really tear into Anders in-game, ha. I simply could not get over him lying to Hawke. :(


	11. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lies ahead.

The western reaches of Sundermount were deserted.  In the stands of scrubby pines, not even a templar army was looking for a small band of Kirkwall deserters.  They had set up camp here, intent on holing up for a few days to regroup and decide upon their next course of action.  Merrill had led them to this secluded dale, safe from her former clan’s watchful eyes on this, the far side of the mountain.  

There had been little to say.  Everyone had been exhausted, stunned by the events of the day and the horrors they had witnessed.  The Chantry’s destruction, Orsino’s mad decay, Meredith’s lyrium-fueled rampage.  They had simply marched to the secluded dale and practically collapsed where they stood.  Hawke had volunteered for the first watch, feeling at least partly responsible for the day’s events, and wanting the time to herself to think.

She was grateful that none of her companions had been hurt.  She had been frightened to think that Fenris would leave them, but to see him return to her side had brought her great comfort, even though she knew that fighting for the mages went against so much of what he believed.  It had been incredible to see Bethany again, to finally hug her and tell her how much she had been missed.  The loyalty of her friends could not mean more to her.

But Anders…

She sat at the edge of their small campfire, the warmth from the flames kissing her knees.  She was huddled on a log, not the most comfortable of seats, but it helped to keep her from falling asleep.  The cold night breeze was at  her back.  Around her the others snored or slept quietly.  Merrill was surprisingly the loudest snorer of all, whereas Varric slept almost daintily, he was so quiet and still.

She spared a glance behind her.  Anders slept there, the firelight scarcely enough to cast a glow over his face.  Even in sleep it looked troubled.

He had lied to her.  To all of them, but especially to her.  

Could he be forgiven?   _Should_ he be forgiven?  She still did not know.

As she watched him, he began to stir.  He shifted beneath his blanket, then sat up, yawning.  He saw her looking at him.  “Hawke?” he asked sleepily.

“Just taking the first watch, remember?” she said.  

“Do you mind if I join you?”

She shrugged.  “I suppose not.”

He cast off his blanket, getting to his feet and stretching.  “I’d forgotten how miserable sleeping outside is.  Back with the Wardens it was a dreadful affair.  How is the watch going?” Anders asked her, settling beside her on the log seat.  She stared into the fire, watching the way the flames danced.  It was soothing, especially when she compared it to the unnatural red flames Meredith had flung at them.  She shivered despite the warmth.

“It’s fiery,” she said.  “The watch, I mean.”  She held her hands up, letting the warmth penetrate them.  It felt good - something simple, something real.

“Good,” Anders said.

They sat together for a few moments, both of them at a loss for words.  She had told him in the Gallows that she would flee with him, but now that they were here, was that still true?

At last Anders spoke, ending the silence.  “The world is changing, isn’t it?”

“It changes every day.  Sun rising, sun setting, all that lot,” said Hawke.  “But I can feel it.  You've started something, Anders.  Whether or not it will do any good in the long run, I can't tell you."

"It can't stay the way it is forever," said Anders.

"Nothing can," said Hawke, and the distance between them yawned like a chasm.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, Hawke trying to marshal her thoughts and failing.  Anders broke the quiet again.

"Back in the Gallows," Anders said, hesitating.  "Did you... Did you mean it?"

"That I'd run off and become an outlaw?" said Hawke lightly.  "Of course.  Everyone's been expecting me to do that for years anyway."

"I meant the part where you'd run off and become an outlaw with _me_."  He looked down at his boots.  "I know we were about to face certain death back there.  I don't hold you to what you said in the heat of the moment.  If you've thought it over and you still want a normal life, if you want me to leave your side, I will not begrudge you it.  You have already done so much more for me than I deserve."

Hawke lifted her gaze from the fire, staring instead into the dark trees ringing their campsite.  The wind blew through them, rustling their needles.  She felt the breeze on her face, felt the way it played with her hair.

"I do want you to leave," she said.  She turned and looked at him.  His mouth flattened into a thin line, and he closed his eyes in resignation.

"But I also want you to stay.  And I can't decide what I should do," she said honestly.  Anders opened his eyes again.  She searched them, their golden brown so familiar.  There was no hint of Justice welling up within him, only himself.

She folded her hands together, thinking.  "What would you do if you were me, Anders?” she asked.  “Consider.  You're in love with someone, someone who makes you laugh, who's there for you, who comes with flaws but you love him anyway because of who he is.  You fight against the world together at each other's side."  She smiled, remembering those times before... all of this.   

She spread her hands out in front of her, tapping a finger against her palm, counting out the sins.  "Then your lover lies to you.  Not about whether or not he walked the dog that morning (I know you always made Sandal do it, by the way), but about the fact he was planning on attacking the city you both have worked so hard to help.  You knew he was lying and he still wouldn't give you the truth."  Her finger stabbed down into her palm, and she let out a long breath.  "He made you an accomplice - no matter how much he claimed otherwise - without your knowledge.  And when it finally came down to it, he actually thought that you would _execute_ him afterwards.  You, the person who loved him most.  He truly thought you could twist the knife."

She threw another sheath of wood onto the fire, sparks hissing outward from the new hungry flames.  "So tell me, what do I do with that, Anders?  What do you expect me to do?”

“I expected you to kill me because it’s what I would have done to myself, in your shoes,” Anders said baldly.  “I honestly never expected to leave Kirkwall alive.”

“Fatalist,” she said, but without the joking tone she would normally employ.  She shook her head.  “You should have known better.  I’ve killed before in the name of mercy, and in the name of revenge.  You -- you didn’t fall into either category.  And you should have known that.”

She sighed, running one hand through her tangled hair.  “You may have thought you were completely selfless here, making the first strike in the war for mage freedom.  But you were selfish too.  You had no consideration for the lives of those people in the Chantry, most of whom were not mages _or_ templars.  They were just people.  Did you think about how much blood would be spilled in Kirkwall today?  You saw how many mages went berserk.  We nearly fought off more demons than templars.  How does that look to the world and to your cause?”

“I had to do this,” Anders said aggressively.  “Mages and templars have been killing each other for centuries, there is nothing new about that.  But with this action the world will see how the templars respond to innocent mages when they have done nothing wrong.  Meredith threatened to cull the Circle for my actions.  That’s not justice.  And if some mages responded to their own imminent death with the wrong choice, it still does not speak to all of us.   I am sorry for the people who were killed.  But believe me when I say there was no other choice.”

“You don’t act sorry,” Hawke said, fighting to keep real venom from her voice.  

“You wondered why I had stopped coming to you,” said Anders, fidgeting with his robes.  “Why I pulled away.  It’s because I was already atoning for what I was going to do.  I was helping apostates get out of Kirkwall, healing the poor, telling them to avoid the Chantry.  And yes,” he said, looking at her with bright eyes, his face pained, “I mourn those innocents whose deaths I caused.  I will carry them with me as long as you deign me to live.”

Hawke examined him for a moment by the fire’s light, noting the way shadows pooled beneath his eyes, in the hollows of his cheeks.  She could sense no lie in his voice, nothing that would indicate he was not sorry.  Yet she was not completely convinced.

He edged closer to her on the log, and reached out as if to hold her hand.  But he held back as if he was unsure he was allowed to do so.  His hand hovered there, long nimble fingers mere inches from hers.  He withdrew his hand suddenly as if he had been burned.

“I should have trusted you,” he said, hanging his head.  “I’ve trusted you since you first came to my clinic, when the refugees tried to protect me, and you told them your own sister was an apostate as well.  You were there for me when I tried to save poor Karl, and you were there for me when it seemed Tranquility was inevitable.  And today, when you should have killed me, you stood by me and my people.  I should have trusted you in this too.”  His hands gestured in front of him, little futile movements.  “I’ve done grievous harm to you, love, and I am sorry.”

“So what do we do now?” Hawke asked.

“I will keep fighting for the mages,” Anders said sadly.  “That will always be a part of me.  But I will also strive to do what I know best.”  Soft blue light flickered in the palm of his hand.  He smiled, just the slightest movement of his lips.  “I am a healer, Hawke.  And if I can heal this rift between you and me…”  He gazed into her eyes as he closed his hand over the light, extinguishing it, leaving their faces lit only by the firelight and the stars.  “Then I will try my best to do it.”

Hawke looked at his hands.  Hands of a healer.  Hands of a murderer.  Hands of a lover.  They were finely freckled on the backs, calloused on the palms and fingertips.  Dried dirt and blood were beneath his fingernails.  They were hands that had seen much, done much, hands that would continue to change the world, hands that could create death and salvation both.  They trembled, slightly, the movement barely perceptible to her eye.  She knew whatever answer she gave him would be final, and so did he.

She closed her eyes.  The ground had disappeared beneath her today and she had fallen deep into a strange new world.  It was frightening, that sensation, as was the knowledge that there was no solid ground to be found now.  Hawke remembered how it had felt to fall in love.  It had been terrifying.  It had also been worth it.

Hawke opened her eyes.  She might never stop falling, she knew; the only certainty in life was that there was none to be had, that one must take their chances while they can.  “There would be no more secrets between us?” she asked.  It had to be said.

“Never again,” said Anders, and the emotion in his voice cut her to the quick.  “I promise you that.”

Hawke took his hands in hers.  The weight of them felt both familiar and new.  She leaned forward, and the kiss she gave him was shy, searching.  His mouth felt right.  She pulled away, letting herself cautiously smile.

“Well, my fellow outlaw,” she said, “if we fall, we fall together.”  

Anders laughed in shaky relief, leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers.  He drew in a deep breath.  “You’re far more than I deserve, you know that, don’t you?”

She held his hands tightly, closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of him mingled with the smoke of the fire, the clean greenness of the pines.  The world seemed so small and safe in this moment, shrunk to the sliver of space between them.   “Oh yes, Anders.  I know.”  A quiet laugh escaped her.

“I love you,” said Anders.

She chuckled, catching him in a kiss.  “I know that, too.”

_If we fall, we fall together_.  Yes.  She could live with that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who've been reading this! I know I'm dreadfully late to the DAII game and to Anders' character in general, but I found him fascinating and wanted the chance to explore some key nuances of his relationship with Hawke. I had fun with this one and I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the hard work of being happy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13648752) by [fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness), [LoonyLupin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin)




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